


Strange Bedfellows

by geekmama



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Post Curse of the Black Pearl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-16
Updated: 2010-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-07 08:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Norrington: captured, and released.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Bedfellows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hereswith](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Hereswith).



"Necessity is the mother of strange bedfellows."  
\- Captain Jack Sparrow

**1\. Mine**

Flanked by Gibbs and Anamaria, Jack walked down the length of the hall to face the parody of humanity that was John Peel, scourge of the southern Caribbean. The man looked worse than Jack had expected, worse than had been reported: apparently the disease that had Peel in its grip was reaching its apogee, and the world would soon be rid of the… the _what?_ The epithets _vermin_ and _bastard_ were too honorable. _Excrement_? Any suffering Peel got from his plight was more than deserved, as Jack knew all too well. Unfortunately it made Peel all the more dangerous.

“Sparrow.” The word was hoarse, and Peel spat quite deliberately after its utterance.

Jack didn't wrinkle his nose, and actually managed to color his reply with amiable sympathy. “Captain Peel. I’d heard you were in a sad way these days, and I’m sorry to see the truth of it. I’ve come to relieve you of one burden, at least.”

“That right?” Peel rasped. “And what burden would that be?”

“You’ve a prisoner here. One Commodore James Norrington of the British Royal Navy.” Jack leaned forward a bit and narrowed his eyes. “I want him.”

Peel’s face twisted and he shook a bit: laughter. “Do you? I’d heard you’d some dealings with the man recently.”

"Would've had me dancin' the hempen jig, save that Bootstrap's son came for me."

"Bootstrap Bill! Heard Barbossa'd sent the old bugger to Davy Jones years ago."

"True enough. But his son's yet extant, and the apple don't fall far from the tree."

"The boy's good with a sword?"

"Best in the Caribbean, I'd wager. But about Norrington--"

"Forget Norrington. He's mine."

There was a short silence. Then Jack raised a brow and said quietly, "You welchin' on a deal, mate? You owe me."

There was another silence, a longer one in which Peel seemed to vibrate with displeasure. Finally he growled, "You want Norrington 'stead o' gold, or jewels, Sparrow? I might get the impression you've a fondness for the gent. For the Royal Navy, in fact."

"A _fondness_," Jack repeated, savoring the word, and his eyes glittered. "Aye, you might say that."

Peel's gaze pierced. Anger? Suspicion? But there he was, shaking again: laughing. Then choking with it. His horrible, wet cough went on for a time, but when he'd recovered, he said to Jack, "Have it your way. We'll call it square. I've had my fun with him, and that leg of his'll likely do him in before much longer. _Guard!_" This last delivered in a stentorian rasp that brought Peel's minions running. "Take Sparrow's gobs down to fetch Norrington. Seems I've a debt to settle."

*****

2\. Depths

They'd left him alone for the last two days. At least he thought it was two. Difficult to tell, here in Peel's lockup, save by counting the meals he hadn't eaten. Starve a fever, wasn't that the saying? And pain made one too ill to eat in any case, even if the food had been remotely palatable.

The clamor of his injuries, particularly the leg, did not allow him to sleep, but he was aware he'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for some time and, more worrisome even than the prospect of further attentions from his captors, he'd found himself muttering disjointedly on waking. Thus far the guards hadn't seemed to care, but Peel would care a great deal if he found out, would be as glad of it as he'd previously been infuriated by James's silence.

The concern was pressing – James would have ended the chance of revealing too much had he been equipped with the means – but it was not sufficient to keep him from succumbing to that dark insensibility that seemed to well from within. Therefore, when the sound of boots and strange voices intruded, he struggled up from the warm depths, struggled to summon the courage and lucidity to face his captors once more.

"He's in here."

The key turning in the lock, the creak of the door… James knew he should turn over but he seemed to lack the will…

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!"

The voice that muttered this was oddly familiar. And then, after a moment's pause, footsteps and someone crouching beside him. With a supreme effort, he turned over, and found himself gazing into wide, serious eyes set in a young, dusky, very beautiful face – the last thing he'd expected to see!

"Norrington?" the girl said quietly, and placed her hand, cool and oddly callused, briefly against his forehead.

"Is he bad?" And a face out of the past leaned over the girl's shoulder, a dramatic expression sweeping over it.

"Gibbs," James croaked. He needed water.

"Shut up!" the girl snapped at Gibbs, over her shoulder, and the man did, straightening, but tried to communicate something to James with a wink and grimace.

The girl scowled, looking displeased with this display, but when she turned back to James she let a secret smile touch her lips, though she spoke severely. "You're Jack Sparrow's now, Norrington. Peel's given you to him, they're upstairs sealing the bargain with a drink. Put up a fuss and it'll go all the worse for you, savvy?"

"Aye!" Gibbs agreed, with another not-very-subtle wink.

"Not Sparrow!" James said, and prayed Peel's guards would hear despair in his voice, rather than the nonsensical yet undeniable relief that coursed through him now like strong physick.

*****

3\. Apprehension

There were lowered voices, and the sounds of preparations being made; the faint sea motion felt through the table… the sole… the hull of the _Black Pearl_; and above all that, the cacophony of the pain in his leg, which he expected would presently rise to deafen him, would likely undo him. He hoped he would not shame himself. He hoped he would live.

He very much wished himself elsewhere.

“Here. Sit up, a bit, and drink this, Commodore.”

James just had time to open his eyes at Jack’s command before he was being helped to raise himself and a vial was set to his lips and its contents tilted ruthlessly down his throat. The bitterness of it was only partially masked with some kind of sweetening, and he made a horrid face, and gulped thankfully at the rum and water he was given by way of a chaser.

“What was that?” he gasped, when he could.

“Laudanum. Would’ve thought you’d had it before, considering a couple of those scars you’ve kept hidden under that uniform.”

“The navy’s doctors are wary of drugging their patients,” James said, carefully. Pointedly.

Jack was undisturbed. Of course. “Hmmph!” he said, “Fortunate you’re with us an’ not them, then, ain’t it?”

The light words and cocked brow almost masked the concern in the dark eyes. James, already feeling tendrils of relief beginning to curl through him, replied, “It would seem so.” He closed his eyes again, but then smiled at the brief touch of a warm hand on his own.

*****

4\. White Man

He was different, all right, his skin under that uniform, once they'd got it off, pale as ivory. Made the wound look even worse than it was. Made it _wrong_, in a way that struck Ana to the heart.

She set her jaw and helped Jack do what they had to do to save him, but it was hard. By the end, there were tears streaking her cheeks. None on his, though, nor any cry on his lips, that stubborn, bloody-minded courage serving, though it left him limp as a rag, and his face dead white under its shipboard tan.

*****

5\. Diversity

He didn’t wake when she sat by him, perching on the edge of the narrow cot, so she set the glass carefully on the floor, and looked her fill for a change. His bright fever-flush had ebbed to pale relief. He was mending, as Jack had predicted.

Treating that wound had sure taken the starch out of him, though. His face was etched with the memory of it. A brave man, the Scourge of Piracy.

Covered only with a sheet, he looked so thin and drawn she could count his bones. They’d thrown his wig to the sharks, and his short brown hair lay lank against his forehead.

So different from Jack’s.

Anamaria frowned, and reached up, and lightly stroked it back. And then started: his eyes were open.

“Sorry!”

His voice rasped, wearily. “No.”

“I’ve brought your draught.”

She started to reach for it, but one hand flailed, catching hers.

“No. I… don’t want to be drugged.”

His eyes pleaded, and she smiled. “It’s water, sweetened with rum, is all, this time.”

He sighed, retaining the hand. Then drew her fingers against his lips. “My good nurse,” he murmured.

Her breath stuttered.

Not so different from Jack, after all.

*****

6\. Sweet Pilgrimage

GO and catch a falling star,  
Get with child a mandrake root,  
Tell me where all past years are,  
Or who cleft the devil's foot,  
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,  
Or to keep off envy's stinging,  
And find  
What wind  
Serves to advance an honest mind.

  
*

It irked James nearly beyond bearing to be so incapacitated.

“I thank you, but no: I would prefer to stay here on the _Pearl_. Smythe can very well fetch me what I need while you’re gone to the island.”

But Jack looked down his nose at him and raised a brow. “Remind me t’ ask what you prefer next time the lads vote t’ make you captain. For now, you’re goin’ over with the rest of us.”

James ground his teeth.

*

They used a sling to lower him carefully into the waiting cutter, a system similar to that used on naval vessels to accommodate the wounded. However, it had never fallen to his lot before, and he was stone-faced with chagrin.

Their landing was easy enough. It was a quiet bay, the lap of wavelets and the crunch of sand the only sounds as they reached the shore. But then the two burly lads Jack had assigned to assist him managed to jostle him in doing so, and he was surprised into a hiss of pain. Jack flung a short, sharp rebuke at the pair. All apologies, the two transferred James to the stretcher without further mishap, and he closed his eyes, intently wishing himself otherwhere. He gave no sign when Jack briefly gripped his shoulder in sympathy.

Feigned sleep gave way to unfeigned, as the plaguey exhaustion common to invalids overtook him yet again.

*

He woke as they reached the forest clearing, its thermal spring bubbling in a wide pool. It was beautiful, just as Jack had promised: cool shade and dappled sun blessed the sand and grass that led toward the water, which was edged with ferns and reeds, and a few large boulders. They helped him to rise, and, with the aid of a stout stick, he hobbled over to settle on one of the latter. He watched Jack direct his men in setting up a temporary camp, a surfeit of ill-gotten riches and piratical luxury.

When they were nearly finished, Jack came to him and swept an arm. “What d’ you think?”

Norrington’s mouth twisted. “What if it rains?”

Jack’s brows rose. He gave a theatrically suspicious glance at the sky, and then shook his head. “Wouldn’t dare.” He held out a beringed hand. “Come! Your couch awaits.”

Norrington surveyed said couch: a mass of soft blankets, colorful fabrics, and many pillows. “I’m unlearned in the ways of a sybarite,” he said, coolly, though he immediately felt churlish.

But Jack chuckled. “You’re a quick study in most things. I feel sure this ain’t beyond your capacity. Come. It’ll do you good.”

James gave a slight snort of derision at that last, words he’d heard far too often in recent weeks, usually just before enduring some excruciating procedure, or being coaxed to swallow some horrid curative. However, he took the proffered hand, and refrained from further comment.

*

Jack and the other men took themselves off, leaving him with Anamaria. “She likes this place,” Jack had told him. “Likes to wash her clothes in all that fresh water, and take a bit of a bathe. We come here pretty regular. It ain’t just you that’s brought us.”

Ana’s rather surly mien had eased with the departure of the others, and now she knelt beside him. “You all set? Jack’ll be back in a while, and we’ll help you into the water. It’ll do you a world o’ good, believe me.”

“You know from experience?” James asked, his eyes flicking down her compact form before he could stop himself.

“Aye. And I know that testy feeling, too, when you’re on the mend and want to be up and doing, but still so damn weak you tire at the least thing.”

James flushed in consternation that she had seen through his attempts to hide ‘that testy feeling’ behind good manners and reticence. She grinned at his discomfiture, and he gave a rueful smile. “My apologies, ma’am.”

“Accepted. But there’s no need.” She laid a light hand against his shoulder, a gentler echo of Jack’s reassurance; then rose gracefully and busied herself with her laundry.

He found himself quite content merely to lie upon his opulent sickbed and watch her.

*

After a while, Jack came back with a good report of the hunting party.

“There’s plenty of game, and some crack shots among the lads. We’ll feast by the shore tonight! I’ve left them to it, and told ‘em all to stay away from here ‘til sunset.” He grinned down at James. “Time to take a swim, mate.”

*

The unavoidable intimacies of the sickroom were one thing. The casual decadence of this equivalent of a Roman bath was something else entirely.

Particularly considering the presence of the lady.

As a result, there was some initial awkwardness, on his own account, and a little on Anamaria’s. Jack, of course, shucked his clothing with an air of complete unconcern, quite at ease with his body’s appearance (as well he might be). Yet there was sufficient laughter and care between them all to dispel James’s ambivalence. And then, when they’d helped him into the water…well, there was no denying that Jack and Anamaria had spoken the truth about that, too: the heat and bubbling currents, and the ease of movement that the water imparted, were a complete delight.

“Told you so,” Jack smirked.

“You did indeed,” James replied.

“You should trust me by now.”

“_Pirate_?”

“Aye, of course. But there’s pirates an’ pirates.”

Jack was waiting for his concession. And, after considering the events of these last weeks, James could not find it in him to disappoint.

It was a memorable hour and did, indeed, do him a great deal of good, both in body and soul.

*

Afterward, they sunned themselves a while. Then he was made to move into the shade, while Anamaria resumed her washing, and Jack dressed and loped off to check on his crew and his ship.

James slept, deeply.

*

_He dreams of the sea, and its creatures, lithe and strong, and perfectly beautiful. Silver scales, silver tide, silver-foam waves breaking on a beach of moonlit white. He remembers now what he felt as a boy, the simple, heart-breaking essence of it, stirring his blood, filling his mind with thanks, and with joy. And peace._

*

Someone was humming, low and melodiously. His eyes blinked open and slowly focused on the waking world. Anamaria adorned the water’s edge, sitting with her legs curled beneath her. She had apparently just bathed again, and was now combing out her hair.

A line of half-forgotten poetry came to him. He murmured, “_Teach me to hear mermaids singing._”

“John Donne.”

James turned his head to find Jack stretched out beside him, peering at him from over the top of the book he’d been reading.

When James said nothing, Jack went on. “First verse of that’s apt enough, but the gist of the rest… no.” He looked over at Ana, and a little smile touched his lips.

James looked again, too, and nodded. “She is _a woman true and fair_.”

“That she is. Pilgrimage was a bit hard on you, though.”

“Yes,” said James. “But ultimately sweet.”

  
\---

**~ SONG ~**

GO and catch a falling star,  
Get with child a mandrake root,  
Tell me where all past years are,  
Or who cleft the devil's foot,  
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,  
Or to keep off envy's stinging,  
And find  
What wind  
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,  
Things invisible to see,  
Ride ten thousand days and nights,  
Till age snow white hairs on thee,  
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,  
All strange wonders that befell thee,  
And swear,  
No where  
Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,  
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;  
Yet do not, I would not go,  
Though at next door we might meet,  
Though she were true, when you met her,  
And last, till you write your letter,  
Yet she  
Will be  
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

_~ John Donne_

*****

7\. Gift

James had retired shortly after their meal and now lay replete, weary, yet still wakeful in the shadowed moonlight of the tent they'd set for him some distance away, in the midst of a quiet palm grove. He listened to the faint music of the surf, the crackling fire, and Jack's voice as he wove tales both humorous and strange for the edification of his crew. Further away, someone was playing a flute, a sweet, contemplative air.

There were "pirates an' pirates", as Jack had said that afternoon. Pirates like Peel, vicious as a man could be and still be called a man; and pirates like Jack, whose questionable philosophies and need for freedom and adventure did not preclude courage, consideration, or empathy. Will Turner had been correct: _a pirate -- and a good man_.

And then there was Jack's crew: the silent, kindly Cotton; Gibbs, as able a seaman as James had ever met, yet quite unsuited to life aboard a naval vessel; Marty, whose small stature masked the heart of a lion; and Anamaria, fierce, proud, a woman who did not so much reject her lot as refuse to settle for it.

As though in answer to his thoughts, the flap of the tent was drawn aside and Anamaria was briefly silhouetted against the moonlight before she entered and let the flap fall again. She came to him, knelt beside him, and the shadows and faint light seemed to caress the planes of her beautiful face.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "Is there anything I can get you?"

Without thought, James raised a hand and was a fraction of an inch from caressing her cheek when he remembered himself.

*

"Forgive me," James whispered, and the hand drew back.

Anamaria let out the breath she'd been holding. She could feel the blood in her veins, could feel the steady beating of her heart. She had _wanted_ him to touch her.

Only Jack had been allowed, and that not often. But there was something about James. Something in the way he looked at her, even that first time, in Peel's cell. He saw her as one who was real, an equal, though to the world they were nothing of the kind.

And she trusted him.

She took the hand, so finely made, callused here from swordplay, there from holding a quill. She said to him, "What do you want, James Norrington?"

She watched him swallow hard, watched color flood his cheeks, and her heart was warmed. And he said to her, almost in a whisper, "Ana… I have no right."

She nodded. Placed a kiss on his fingers. Placed those fingers against her shirt. Against her breast. He was bare, she knew, under the light covering of the blanket, and she felt herself color and swallow, too. But her voice was steady when she said to him, "A gift then, James. For both of us." And she let go of his hand, and slowly, deliberately pulled open the ties on her shirt.

  
*

**8\. Light**

In the gray dawn, Anamaria roused from the depths of sleep, became aware that she was not alone, and opened her eyes to find herself face to face with Commodore James Norrington of the Royal Navy.

James.

His eyes were closed, lashes fanned against his cheeks; his hair was mussed; his expression was slack and boyish with the serenity of slumber. But James Norrington was no boy, that was certain. The many things they had done together in the shadowed night began to come back to her, filling her thoughts, and she felt her cheeks warm and her heart quicken.

She had expected him to be gentlemanly. But there was so much she had not expected.

When they’d begun, as she’d finished pulling loose the ties on her shirt, a light had come into his eyes that made her shiver deep inside. She’d pulled the shirt up and off, and tossed it aside a little defiantly, bared to his gaze. There was pride and daring in the look she gave back, but there was that shiver, too, just the same. It was a risky business, loving Commodore James.

That light in his eyes held something of lust, but more of something else. Admiration? Love? She’d almost laughed at that thought, such a romantical notion.

He’d held out his hand. “Come!” he said, his voice rough with burgeoning passion.

She’d risen, heart thudding, stripped off her breeches, then slipped beneath the sheet he held up in silent invitation.

It was a heady shock, feeling his body all along the length of her – far _more_ than just the length of her, and more than the width, too. Somehow she hadn’t realized what a big man he was until that moment. And he was big in other ways, she could feel him, feel _it_, hot and hard against the skin of her thigh, and there was already a slickness there when he gave a convulsive movement of his hips, his breath harsh. But he stopped, gathered himself, gathered control, and he set out to make love to her.

He was as patient as Jack could be, though Jack’s patience often seemed a game, a testing of sorts – mostly of her, since he was the more experienced of the two of them by far and was all too familiar with his own limits. But with James it was a gift, just as she’d said, and an education, for both of them.

He was skilled enough, but there was nothing jaded in his efforts. When after a considerable time a whimper of frustration escaped her and he allowed her to arch and stretch and reach beneath his touch, then muffled her shrieks of ecstasy with kisses, she was aware through the long moments that his soul was with her, though he gasped and trembled, reining in his physical need.

When she had come back to herself, she had smiled at him, and he’d smiled back, even wound tight as he was, his teeth very white in the dim.

It was her turn, then. She’d taken her time, exploring with the keenest delight, until at last he could bear it no longer. Encouraged by pleading words and urgent touch, she’d moved over him, and sank down, her head thrown back, more than ready. A position of dominance, one would have thought, but it allowed him to savor, to devour with his eyes, and to delay long enough to use those beautiful hands, those long, wicked fingers, to bring her along with him. They’d no wish to wake the camp and managed in relative silence, teeth clenched against harsh whispers, no sound of wailing cries, eyes locked until pleasure overwhelmed and blinded them perforce. Afterwards, lying beside him, Ana thought their restraint must have enhanced the experience, for she’d never felt so entirely wrung out. It had been her last thought, and maybe his, too. She didn’t think either of them had moved, from that moment to this.

_James._

He was awake. His eyes were open. And there was that light again.

They just looked at each other for a long time. But finally, wits fuddled with a joyful confusion, Ana asked, nonsensically, wonderingly, “Who are you?”

His hand moved to envelope hers – her small, but work-roughened sailor’s hand – and he drew it up so that he could put his lips to her knuckles, a moment of silent worship. And then he said, in a voice like music, “Just James. Your friend. And your lover.”

 

~.~

 


End file.
